Gromph started up the aisle and stopped about halfway. The spider golem stood behind the altar, dark and forbidding. The pulsing master ward extended through Gromph and into the golem's thorax like an umbilical cord. They were connected, at least metaphorically.
Gromph knew golems. He had created several over the centuries. Mindless and composed of inorganic material, even the most ordinary of them were immune to virtually all forms of magical attack.
And the spider golem was no ordinary construct. Composed of smooth jet, it was the guardian of the lichdrow's phylactery. Gromph had no doubt that the lichdrow had augmented its immunities to magic. He knew that the spider golem could be destroyed only by physical attacks with enchanted weapons.
Unfortunately, Gromph was not a highly skilled fighter-his battle with Nimor had demonstrated that amply-but he nevertheless planned to chop the golem down with the duergar axe. He had spells that would assist his strength, speed, stamina, and aim, but still. .
At least it was Larikal's body that would suffer, he thought, but the realization gave him only small solace. He occupied the body, so he would feel the pain.
And he was growing weary of pain.
Gromph unbelted the axe and got comfortable with its heft. Eyeing the golem, he took a piece of cured lizard hide from his robes and cast a spell that sheathed his body in a field of force-
essentially a suit of magical armor. Next, he spoke the words to a spell that caused eight illusionary duplicates of himself to form around him. The images shifted and moved-it would be difficult for the golem to determine which was the real Gromph and which an illusion. He followed that with a spell that formed a shield-sized field of force before him that would deflect attacks. An illusory shield appeared before all of the duplicates.
Almost ready, he thought.
He took a specially prepared root from his robe, chewed it-the taste was sour-and articulated the words to a spell that sped his reflexes and movement.
He had one more spell to cast-one from his scroll-but after casting it, he would not be able to cast another until it had run its course. Most mages were loathe to use it. Gromph had no choice.
First, he had to awaken the golem.
He held the scroll ready in his hand, took a wand from his pocket, aimed it at the spider golem, and discharged a glowing green missile of magical energy. It struck the golem in its chest,
below the bulbous head. While it did no harm, the attack animated the construct.
The huge stone creature stirred. Light animated its eight eyes. Its pedipalps and legs stretched.
Gromph unrolled the scroll and read the words to one of the most powerful transmutations he knew. As the words poured from him, the magic took effect, bringing with it an understanding of how to use the duergar axe, an understanding of how to fight. Gromph felt his skin harden, his strength increase, his speed increase still more. A vicious fury seized his mind.
By the time the spell had transformed him fully, Gromph felt nothing but a powerful compulsion to chop the golem into bits. He reveled in the spell-induced ferocity. The knowledge imparted to him by the spell crowded out his understanding of the Weave, but he did not care. He would not have cast spells even if he could have. Spellcasting was for the weak.
The axe felt weightless in his hand. He crumbled the suddenly blank parchment in his fist and spun the axe around him with one hand, so fast it whistled.
The golem fixed its emotionless gaze upon him and bounded over the altar. The creature moved with alacrity and grace, unusual for a construct. Its weight caused the temple floor to shake.
Gromph brandished the axe, roared, and charged the rest of the way down the aisle.
Quenthel sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, praying by the light of a sanctified candle,
asking for some revelation that would explain this absurdity. She clutched her holy symbol in her hand and ran her thumbs along its edges.
Lolth did not answer. The Spider Queen was as silent as she had been immediately before her rebirth.
Merely thinking of that obscenity caused Quenthel to shake with rage. The serpents of her whip, laying by her side, sensed her anger and swirled around her in an attempt to comfort their mistress.
She ignored them, rose, and took the whip and candle in her hand. Quenthel threw open her door, exited her chambers, and stalked the great hall of House Baenre, seething. Her wrath went before her like a wave and cleared her path.
Servants saw her coming, bowed their heads, and scurried into side halls and off chambers.
Her forceful strides caused her mail to chime and the candle flame to dance.
How could Lolth have chosen another? Quenthel was-had been she reminded herself with heat-the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. Lolth had brought her back from the dead.
But the Spider Queen had chosen her, an upstart whore!
The serpents of her whip offered soothing words in her mind but she ignored their soft hissing.
You are still the First Sister of House Baenre, K'Sothra said.
True, Quenthel acknowledged. But she was no longer Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. She had seen to that.
Quenthel knew it was blasphemous to think ill of the Yor'thae, but she could not stop herself.
Quenthel would have preferred the dignity of a clean death to the shame of being removed from
Arach-Tinilith. Triel regarded her differently since her removal; everyone in the House did.
Why would Lolth have cast her so low? After all she had done and endured?
No one had been better suited to be Lolth's Yor'thae. No one. Especially not her.
A cobweb caught Quenthel's eye. Her rage subsided, and she stopped in the middle of the hallway. She saw nothing unusual about the web, but it seemed meaningful to her.
It hung in a corner, strung between two tapestry-covered walls, silvery in the candlelight. It was big.
A stonespider's web, Quenthel decided. She had seen stone spiders grow half as large as her hand.
A few desiccated caveflies hung from the strands like tiny marionettes.
She walked to the web, head cocked, and held the candle aloft.
She studied the strands, thinking them beautiful in their intricacy. Every strand had a reason to exist in the web, every strand served a purpose.
Every strand.
The web made sense in a way that her life, death, and resurrection did not.
She looked more closely at the web, moved the candle around it, but saw no spider. She lightly brushed it with her finger, hoping the vibration would draw the creature out of hiding.
Nothing. The caveflies bounced on their strings.
For no reason that she could articulate, Quenthel hated the web. An impulse took her, and she could not stop herself.
She lifted the candle and held its flame to the strands. She knew it was blasphemy but she did it anyway, unable to contain a crazed grin.
The strands curled and disintegrated, vanishing into fleeting streams of smoke. The caveflies rained to the floor. Warming to her work, Quenthel continued until she had obliterated all sign of the web. She kneeled and burned each of the caveflies, one by one.
The serpents of her whip were too stunned even to hiss.
Mistress? K'Sothra finally managed.
Quenthel ignored her and stalked off, her rage inexplicably abated.
Chapter Sixteen
Danifae lost track of Jeggred the moment she stepped onto the Pass of the Soulreaver. One moment he was there; the next, gone.
She was alone.
A narrow passageway stretched before her, lined on each side by sheer walls of rock. A gray mist crawled over the ground. Her skin went gooseflesh from the chill.
With nothing for it, she walked forward. She felt as though she was covering leagues with each step, taking days to draw each breath. She pressed on, waiting for the Reaver to show itself.